Silence

Some people asked why my grandmother did it.

Some said she was mad,

But she knew what she was trying to find.

She’d sit me on her knee,

Tell me stories of great adventures.

(Not to the sea, or the jungle)

To rippling waters of a mountain spring,

To the golden carpet of a silence to be enjoyed.

Was there ever true silence?

That’s what she searched for.

In the silence of a field, summer chorus of birdsong.

Flaming poppies, droning of buzzy bees,

Orchestral crickets, silence is not easy to find.

In the woods, tall oaks talk to us,

Waving leaves, make breezy sighs all can hear.

When life is lost, quietly it flutters to the carpet.

Rustling, crashing, burning – even the carpet crunches,

Beneath bare toes.

The sea cannot be quiet, it laughs with gulls.

It laps up the walls of cliffs.

Open mouthed fish, talk through sea bubbles.

Plants sing out, swaying in a lagoon.

The sky has no respect for silence,

Rainy day clouds turn cartwheels in the sky.

The hum of a haze, the beating of rain,

Fluttering of snow, whistling of wind.

My grandmother found her true silence,

It was there all the time, hidden behind seeing eyes,

Masked by amplifying ears, covered with raspy breath,

Her true silence lasted us a minute;

It will now last her a lifetime.

By Becky Clemett - 19^th April 1997